


These Things Take Forever And I Especially Am Slow

by trimalchio



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trimalchio/pseuds/trimalchio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristiano is a lifeguard on Madeira, while Leo is a football player.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a response to an old prompt on FootballKink2:
> 
> cris/leo one of them is not a footballer au  
> Just want anything based on this. Maybe leo is cris' awkward sugardaddy (lol just popped into my mind)? Or cris is a famous porn star/underwear model and leo had a crush on him XD? Or leo is cris' childhood sweetheart? The possibility is endless, anons!
> 
> A/N: The title is from "First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes.

 Cristiano needed a steady job to save money so he could move out of his parents' house. At the age of twenty years old, he was becoming very disillusioned with the thought of living with his parents forever, which seemed to become a likelier reality with every passing day. He usually worked on construction sites, with his brother and his father, though Cristiano was not unaccustomed to doing other odd jobs, either for his father, his neighbors or relatives. Most of the time, that money was spent on drinking until blacking out on the warm Madeira beaches.

His sister was a secretary at one of the nearby resorts, so she got all of the job notifications before the management posted them in the newspaper. She told him about a lifeguarding position. He was a good swimmer and enjoyed almost everything that was attached to the job: wearing tiny bathing suits, exercising minute amounts of power, and baking in the sun for eight hours a day. And he got paid to do all of that, while ocassionally dragging drunk German tourists out of the pool when they appeared to struggle. It felt less like work than almost anything he had ever done in his life, despite the fact it was his first regularly paying job.

“How do you like your new job?” Cristiano's mother asked over breakfast. She was heading out to her job as a cleaner.

“It's really great. I think I might be able to become the head lifeguard by next summer.”

“That's great!” she said, smiling, probably pleased that he had finally found a job that forced him into a type of ambition. Head lifeguard's main benefit was that as the head lifeguard, you got to schedule your own shifts, so Cristiano knew that he would schedule himself in the afternoons, so he could sleep in, and avoid weekends at all costs. Weekends were the worst at the resorts because that was when the clientele usually changed over, meaning that the hours Cristiano spent teaching tourists about the dangers of running near the pool or lecturing on whether it was safe to dive into the shallow end was for naught and the tourists reset themselves into loud, shrieking insanity. If you could just skip ahead to Monday, when you've yelled a few times at the impressionable youths, the tourists would seem a lot easier to manage.

Cristiano also didn't mention how easy it was to find guys at work. Not that that was a main reason to work, but it did sweeten the deal. So not only did he get to lifeguard for a living, but he got to have guilt-free, no-ties tourist sex. It was the ideal life. Next to playing football and having enough money to build a spaceship for no reason, but considering his current situation, it was next to perfect.

He ate an orange, while he sat on the lifeguard stand. Paula, his shift partner, was swimming. Paula was a good lifeguard, but she was off to university in the fall, probably to become something important, like a doctor or something. Her life wasn't in self-imposed stasis. When she left, Cristiano would probably pick up her hours, the ones they didn't share at least.

It was not as busy in the mornings, since the guests were usually still asleep from minor hangovers, but they scheduled him and Paula to work, mostly for the stray children who might have wondered over while their parents sleep the night before off.

“What are you doing with your day off?” Paula asked when she climbed back up onto the stand.

“Just hanging out probably.”

“You're not going to watch the derby?”

“I'm not a football fan, really. It's not a real match anyway. The season hasn't begun,” Cristiano replied, dropping the orange rinds into a plastic bag, noting that he had to throw that out before he left for the day.

“So? It'll still be fun. Some of my friends and I are going to watch the match at a bar, if you want to come.”

“Maybe. I'll see,” Cristiano shrugged. He liked the summer, even if he wasn't going to school anymore and wasn't beholden to a particular schedule. He liked how the days stretched out in front of and behind him, mostly wasted in fragments of memories.

When he was getting changed in the locker room, his boss approached him, “Do you think you could come back later tonight? The resort's hosting a pool party tonight. Lots of drunk swimmers.”

“How much will I get paid?”

“Time and a half.”

“I'll be here,” Cristiano confirmed. He was quickly becoming King of the Pool. He went back to his parents' house to take a nap before returning the resort. He stopped by the children's activity room to take a popsicle from the freezer to take his usual place on the lifeguard stand. Even though there was a multitude of drunk people around the pool, none of them seemed to be in any danger of actually drowning, considering no one was actually in the pool. He decided to sit on the pool's edge, his feet in the water. The rich tourists were on the otherside of the pool, dancing to throbbing pop music, loud enough for Cristiano's fillings to hurt from the vibrations.

At around four in the morning, the herd had thinned enormously, with only a few sunburnt English tourists swaying to the music unsteadily. The rest of the group had likely migrated to the rooms, where they were going to participate in awkward sexual experiences that they would never tell anyone about again. He started to pack his own stuff up, grabbing his keys to lock the pool gate, trying to guide the drunks out of the pool area.

A man was leaning against a pillar outside of of the pool gate, speaking Spanish with a really thick accent, “You're really hot. I saw you at that party. I've seen you up the stand before.”

“I know,” Cristiano said, pushing his key into the gate's lock.

“I mean it. You're the sexiest thing I've seen in two weeks.”

Cristiano turned around to face the man properly. He was short. Really short, but he had a cute, button face with long hair. He wasn't someone that Cristiano would usually go after, but he decided to go to the man's room, anyway.

The next morning, the man, more of a kid really, was disgustingly hungover. He was younger than Cristiano; he looked fifteen or sixteen, but considering the facts available to Cristiano at the time, he assumed the kid was eighteen or nineteen. Or he hoped anyway.

Cristiano helped the kid to the bathroom and sat on the floor next to the toilet, rubbing the kid's back while he threw up.

“What's your name?” Cristiano asked, filling up a glass of water from the bathroom sink, handing it to the kid.

“Leo. You?”

“Cris.”

“I really don't usually do this. I don't do this.”

“I do this all the time. It's just opposites attracting.”

Leo smiled uncomfortably, “You are really good looking.”

He laughed and helped Leo into bed, where he could sleep off the rest of his hangover.

Cristiano took a shower when he got back to his parents' house, brushing his teeth and turning on the television. It was just a soap opera on reruns, but he found a surprisingly unopened bottle of beer in the back of the refrigerator. After a while, he decided to go find Paula and her friends, since he wasn't doing anything exciting and he didn't feel like riding his bicycle to the beach to see his own friends.

The day stretched out comfortably. Nacional won over Marítimo, so the world was right, even if it was a match that didn't matter. He didn't take the bus back from the bars because he bet one of Paula's friends that he could her in a race. He won; she bought him a shot of expensive Cuban rum and he walked home, still with a winners' high.

When he was drunk, he usually crawled in through his bedroom window, to avoid his mother's disappointed looks. The next day, he woke up a little nauseous with a minor headache and took the bus to the resort. His sister was sitting at her desk, near the time sheets. She teased, “You've got a little admirer, maninho.”

“What are you talking about?”

“One of the tourists came in here yesterday, asking about the 'good-looking lifeguard.' Naughty, naughty maninho. He looked like a baby.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“I told him that you'll be in today and he is more than welcome to sit on the stand with you.”

When Cristiano got out to the pool, no one was waiting for him, not even Leo from the day before. It started to rain, so he locked the pool gate and started doing pushups in the locker room. Someone came into the locker room; flip-flops slapping against feet. It was Leo, appearing a bit healthier than when Cristiano left him.

“Hi,” Leo said, stopping short in front of the lockers.

“Hi,” Cristiano replied, kneeling on the cold tile floor, looking up at Leo, “How was your hangover? Did you feel better after I left?”

“Yeah,” Leo said, looking at his feet, “Not because you left though.”

“That's good to know.”

There was a silence, while Cristiano returned to his pushups. Leo said, “I was wondering. Do you think I could buy you dinner or something? You know. For helping me out yesterday?”

“You don't have to pay me back or anything. You don't owe me.”

“I want to though.”

“I have to an errand for my uncle after I'm done here.”

“What do you have to do?”

“I have to do some fishing for him. You can come if you really want to.”

“I want to.”

“But do you really want to?” Cristiano asked, teasing a little bit, hoping Leo understood he wasn't trying to be mean.

Leo nodded, “I really want to.”

After Cristiano clocked out, Leo was waiting near the pool gate. The sky had cleared, but the ground was still wet and there were puddles on the cement walkways in the resort. Cristiano said, while they waited for the bus, “I guess fishing isn't too bad of a career choice. If you can drink and do a job at the same time, it's a pretty good job.”

Cristiano picked up a case of beer beforethey went to the docks, armed with Cristiano's uncle's fishing poles and a bucket for the fish.

“So, you're making mad money, huh?” Cristiano asked, popping the cap of the beer bottle off, using the flat edge of the dock. The water from the wet wood of dock was soaking through Cristiano's shorts, but the sun was out, hopefully drying everything up in short order.

“Why do you say that?” Leo asked, twisting the cap off, wrapping the cap in his shirt.

“Everyone at that resort is making a lot of money. I'm pretty sure one week there is more than what I make in a year.”

“You only make eight thousand Euros a year? Isn't that illegal?”

Cristiano laughed, “So you have all that money. Why do you want to go fishing with the commoners?”

“Because you're nice to look at.”

“I know, but there are plenty of good-looking guys out there. Why aren't you drinking expensive champagne with them?”

“I'd be drinking expensive champagne with you, if you weren't so busy.”

“So that's what I'm missing out on?” Cristiano tugged on his fishing rod when the bobber dipped below the surface of the water. When he reeled in his hook, the fish had escaped. He cast out again, asking Leo, “So are you in Funchal by yourself? Or do your parents not care what you're doing right now?”

“I'm on my own. I'm supposed to be relaxing. I see them all the time. They're probably as sick of me as I am of them.”

“I'm sick of my parents, but I need to wait before I can move out.”

“Why?”

“I have next to no money. Turns out it's not a good financial move to drink all of your savings.”

“Who would have guessed?” Leo remarked, “How'd you get all of the money you spend?”

"Protecting people's lives from the mean waters of the resort pool. And just doing stuff. Painting fences, gardening, fishing. What about you? Where do your millions come from?"

"I'm a footballer," Leo said, adjusting himself on the dock, casting his line out, too.

"Are you any good?"

"I play for Barcelona."

"But are you any good?"

"I'm going to be better than Maradona."

"I've heard he's pretty good."

That night, Cristiano and Leo climbed into his bedroom through the window. The world was unsteady, but Leo was there to stop the spinning. Leo kissed him; his breath tasted like stale beer and it was good. It was just really good and everything felt good.

Cristiano woke up with sunlight bathing his face. He stretched out, dragging his fingers across his sheets as his body retracted. Leo had left, probably through the open window. He didn't have to go to the resort for work, so he went to the beach. There was usually someone he knew there, someone from high school or a neighbor.

It was a really nice day, with a strong breeze coming in off of the ocean, so Cristiano rode his bicycle. Usually, he took the bus everywhere. He picked up a case of beer before he got to the beach. A few of his friends from school were already there, kicking around a football.

"You ever heard of Leo Messi?" Cristiano asked, when they took their break. He had already opened his beer, using the bottle opener on his friend's keychain.

Rui shook his head, “Doesn't sound familiar. Why?”

“He's a footballer from Spain, I think. He's staying at the resort.”

“Never heard of him,” Rui repeated himself, taking a long drink from his beer. Cristiano started peeling the label off of his bottle. Rui and he went to the same high school and they were in math class together, never paying much attention, since math was one of those subjects that couldn't hold their attention. To be truthful, most school subjects didn't really maintain Cristiano's attention. His attention was like a bee: off to the next flower before anyone noticed.

Vitór asked, “You talk to him? Did you get his autograph yet?”

“No. Why would I, if no one's ever heard of him?”

“Because he might get really good and famous and everyone will kill for his autograph.”

“I'm going to go back to the resort now,” Cristiano declared, “I'm going to get Leo Messi's autograph. For posterity.”

“What about the rest of the beer?”

“You guys owe me. Will you all be here tomorrow? After five?”

Rui said, “Where else would we go?”

Cristiano rode his bicycle to the resort. He felt like the heroine in a French movie, riding his bicycle along a busy street, in a small city, on a beautiful day. The breeze crept through his hair and his shirt billowed.

He knocked on Leo's suite's door. Leo answered, looking somewhat confused, “You didn't have to come back here. I was going to look for you.”

“It's easier for me to find you. And here I found you,” Cristiano replied, leaning against the door frame, “Do you want to do anything? Like around Funchal or anything? You missed the Nacional preseason match. That was a few days ago.”

“I don't really know anything about Funchal. What's there to do?”

Cristiano shrugged, “I don't know.”

“You've been here your whole life and you don't know what to do around here?”

“I'm only here through coincidence of my birth. I didn't choose to be here.”

Cristiano and Leo ended up leaving the resort. Leo sat on Cristiano's handlebars, albeit after a lot of coaxing. They didn't know what to do, so they sat on the curb in front of a grocery store, drinking from Coca Cola bottles. Cars spend past, people walked past.  The bell on the store's door rang every few minutes.

“Where would you be, if you could choose?” Leo asked.

“Like if I could be born anywhere? Or just to visit?”

“Either.”

“I've always wanted to see America. But not New York City or anything. I want to see the beaches in California. The ones in the movies all the time. What about you?”

Leo shrugged, “I always miss Argentina.”

“Is that where you're from? I thought you were from Spain.”

“I was born in Argentina, but I play football in Barcelona.”

“Do you think you'd like Argentina if you weren't born there? Like if you were born in Spain, would you still have such a fondness for Argentina?” Cristiano asked.

Leo shrugged, “That's a stupid question.”

“Whatever,” Cristiano smiled, nudging Leo with his shoulder. He put his arm around Leo's shoulder. Leo leaned into Cristiano's side and it felt good. It all just was very good. Cristiano kissed Leo on his cheek.

The long summer days that usually lasted forever sped to end. It was the weekend and the tourists were making the traditional shift. With the exceptions of some wealthy supermarket owners from Mexico, most people didn't stay for longer than a week or so. Leo left the resort, like all the others, and Cristiano watched Leo and a porter drag Leo's suitcases out of his suite. Cristiano waved and Leo waved back, but it was still internally draining. The stuff that used to make up Cristiano had oozed out, somehow. He just stayed on the lifeguard stand and watched Leo leave.


	2. Chapter 2

 Leo's favorite season was autumn, though not for symbolic or emotional reasons; he wasn't that kind of person. The football season was underway and the title races were getting more exciting. He had more playing than the year before, so he had no real major problems. Except his two best friends, Gerard and Cesc, were both abroad in England, rather than in Barcelona, where they belonged.

Leo didn't really know the other players at Barcelona all that well. He did know La Masia graduates, like Victór, Andrés, Xavi, and Carles, but not particularly well, since they were all older than him by a few years. Leo didn't know how to interrupt their well-established patter and rhythms. He was honestly astonished to have even gotten pasted an initial conversation with Cris; admittedly, he was drunk, but surely that conversation must have happened and if he was sober, Leo'd probably have thrown up before getting to any decent conversational points.

“You know, your methods of inviting me to another country leave a lot to be desired,” Cris's teasing voice made Leo feel better, even if it was a rarity and only over a scratchy cell phone connection. Leo had mailed Cris a plane ticket and a note that only said, “If you like football, you should see a Clásico.” Leo wasn't sure where the line between cute and weird was, so he had to experiment.

“I am going to be in a Clásico. And it's going to be great and I want you to see me play.”

“It's not that. I just wanted you to know there are less passive and weird ways to invite people to different countries. What if I had work?”

“You're not going to miss a Clásico over a dumb lifeguard job.”

“I'm not. You and your Clásico should be thankful that I am currently the King of the Lifeguards. You're lucky that I'm an ambitious go-getter.”

Leo was. He was just really happy about all of that stuff. He was thankful that he was drunk and had imagined that he had the courage to approach Cris. Cris was normal, handsome, and funny. Even if Leo said something wrong or weird, Cris didn't make him feel like a social moron. Leo wasn't sure how he was going to explain Cris to his teammates, or to anyone really. He tried to imagine explaing to Xavi, Andrés, Victór, and Carles. It was too awkward to comprehend; he wanted to curl up inside of his own skin, at the mere thought.

“My friend from Portugal is coming to see el Clásico this weekend,” Leo told Gerard. Gerard had called from Manchester to catch up. It was good to hear from him.

“I know it's not a girl 'cause you've got no game. Is it, like, some old guy you ate dinner with because he was wearing a River Plate shirt?”

“Nah, just my friend. He's our age.”

“So he's using you for your complimentary tickets?” Gerard said, although it was less a question than a statement of fact for him.

“I invited him.”

Leo thought about telling him, but decided against it.

Cris arrived at his house, while Leo was still at training. Leo had texted him the gate code before he arrived at the house. When Leo got back from training, Cris was wandering around. Leo found Cris's backpack in the front hallway, so Leo knew Cris was still in the house, not specifically where. Leo went to the kitchen to get water and that's where Cris was, standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“What are you doing?” Leo asked.

Cris shut the door, “You've got some house, huh?”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, just looking around.”

Leo wasn't sure when the right time to kiss Cris was, so he just went for him. Standing on tip-toes and leaned in towards Cris.

“What are you doing?” Cris asked.

“Trying to kiss you.”

“Too bad you're so short,” Cris said, smirking.

Around dinnertime, Leo's older brother, Matias, came over. Leo had ordered food in, since his cooking skills were immensely lacking. Cris was sitting at the table, inspecting his fingernails instensely, while Leo didn't know what to say, after the earlier conversations of “how are you” and “what have you been doing” petered out.  He looked at his old text messages, trying to will someone to message him, even if it was spam from a weight loss company.

“Who are you?” Matias asked, entering the kitchen like it was his own. Matias was over enough for that to almost be true.

“Cris, this is my brother, Matias. Matias, this is my friend, Cris. He's from Portugal.”

“You here for the Clásico, then?”

“Yeah. Leo said that if I ever wanted to see real football, this might be my only chance.”

Matias and Cris had a short conversation about Madeira, while Leo continually checked his phone for the delivery man's return call, just in case during the milisecond that Leo had looked away from his phone, they had called.

“Usually, when Leo goes on his recovery trips, he stays in his room and doesn't talk to anyone,” Matias said to Cris, which snapped into place in Leo's attention, “What's your secret, man?”

“It's my dashing good looks,” Cris joked. Matias laughed, patting Leo on the head, before leaving to go find something in another part of the house, probably a movie or something. Leo smiled at Cris thankfully that he didn't say something else, more explicit.

The next day, Leo had to leave in the middle of the day to go to concentración, so he gave Cris instructions on how to use the television and gave him a list of instructions on how to get to the box seats and how to ask for his complimentary ticket.

The concentración was awkward, like usual. Leo was roomed with Victór, probably in the mistaken belief from the managers that as la Masia graduates, they would be able to talk easily. Victór was probably very easy to talk to, for normal people, but Leo didn't know what to say, so he strained to come up with something to say. Instead, Andrés stopped by their room and they all played Parchís, with Andrés and Victór attempting stilted conversations.

Leo didn't start. He sat on the bench, while Ronaldinho, Deco, and Samuel Eto'o were all performing miracles on the pitch, playing as though the Real Madrid players weren't even there. And it wasn't as though Real Madrid was bad by any stretch of the imagination; Ronaldinho, Deco, and Samuel Eto'o were just magicians. After the game was pretty much sealed for victory, Frank Rijkaard put Leo in for Samuel at the eighty-second minute. He jogged around for a little bit, but nothing actually happened.  Even though most people would have been unnerved by the pressure, even at such an advanced state of winning, Leo was happy just to be on the field, glimpsing the ball, even if he rarely got a touch.

He traded his shirt with one of Real Madrid's young defenders who had been shoved on at the last second to preserve the three goal mark. Even though Barcelona had won, he still felt guilty for not affecting the game at all. Leo went to the locker room with the rest of his teammates, who were actually sweating and tired from actually working, while Leo felt barely winded. Deco and Ronaldinho were dancing and making a huge scene, singing to one another.

“We've got to go out for celebrations!” Deco declared to no one in particular, but the whole locker room in general. Well, technically, it was in the shower.

Ronaldinho draped his arm around Leo's shoulder, getting very weirdly close, “You're coming with us, Pulga.”

Leo tried to pull away, but Ronaldinho gripped his arm, sounding like he was joking, “You have to come. You'll never fit in, if you don't come.”

And even though every fiber of his being resisted being held against a completely naked, wet man that he didn't really like all that much, Leo agreed to meet the rest of the team out. He wasn't sure if it was because of the subtle threat or the fact that he wanted to be released terribly. Leo met Cris in one of the lounges, where everyone's family members were waiting.

“What'd you think?” Leo asked.

“Eh, it's not Nacional. But no one is, huh?”

“Nacional? From Madeira?”

“Yeah. You're just jealous that they're not your team.”

Leo shrugged.

“I liked seeing Deco and Ronaldo, though.”

“Ronaldinho?”

“No. Ronaldo from Real Madrid. My middle name is Ronaldo, you know,” Cris said, as they rushed to catch a taxi.

“My middle name is Andrés.”

“Like Iniesta, huh?”

Leo sat quietly, not sure how to tell Cris about the new plans. Cris leaned away from Leo, against the car door, “Are you okay? You just played against Zidane and Raúl and Ronaldo. Shouldn't you be a little happier?”

Leo shrugged, “Do you mind if we go out with my teammates tonight?”

“Yeah, sure. Why? Do you have a problem with that or something?”  


“Why would I have a problem?”

“Because you seem so sad about going out for a good time.”

The club was crowded and hard to navigate. Leo was in front, while Cris pushed him through the crowd towards the VIP section. Cris seemed to understand how nightclubs worked and seemed to enjoy them.

“Leo!” the others yelled when Leo and Cris got to the VIP room. Carles actually stood up to hug him, which surprised Leo quite a lot, since they barely knew each other. Well, they knew each other, just not well. He looked around: most of the team was there, just not Xavi.

“Who's your friend?” Carles held out his hand for Cris to shake.

“Cris. He's from Portugal.”

“Is he some Luis Figo or something?” Carles joked.

“I'm better than Figo at most things,” Cris said, like he belonged. Leo didn't know what to say or do, so he just looked around, at the floor, studying everyone's shoes. Someone handed him and Cris beers, so it seemed like everyone else was trying to have fun. Or actually having fun, probably.

Leo sat in the VIP room, next to Andrés and across from Cris, who seemed bored, picking at the wet label of his beer bottle. Leo said, “You don't have to sit here if you don't want to.”

Cris shrugged and left to dance. Leo drank a few more beers, talking to Andrés about the match for a little while before Andrés went to get a drink from the bar. A little bit of boldness crept out of his stomach and he went to dancefloor to find Cris. Leo wrapped his arms around Cris's waist, who put his arm around Leo's shoulder, in response.

“Can we go back to my house?” Leo asked, though not loudly, so Cris had to shout for him to repeat what he said. Leo repeated himself and they took another cab back.

When they got back to his house, Leo wasn't sure what the right thing to do was; it didn't feel right to go upstairs, so instead, they sat on the stairs. 

“Are we going to fuck?” Cris asked.

“I guess, probably.”

“Yeah, because I was just wondering why you invited me to Spain.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we've only really known each other for a week, so I thought it was kind of weird that you sent me an invitation.”

“So you don't like me.”

“I didn't say that! I like you. I just don't know you.”

“What do you want to know?” Leo tried to wrack his brain for anything to even bother telling Cris about. Other than playing for Barcelona, there was little in his life that he would consider interesting. He continued, “Actually, do you want to play football?”

“What?”

“Let's play football. We can go in my backyard. You should be the keeper, since you're taller.”

“You want me to play keeper?”

“Is it too late? We don't have to play,” Leo had thought it would be good, since playing football was the only thing that didn't make him feel like a perpetually awkward child.

“I just can't play keeper. It's against my nature.”

Leo found a ball in his coat closet and turned on all of the lights for the backyard. He felt comfortable and finally at ease with the ball at his feet. He kicked it past Cris and went for a back-heeled tap-in between the two shoes that they were using as a makeshift goal. He loved football more than anything and it was the only thing that made him thoroughly comfortable. Leo was happy and liberated, ready to figuratively break free. He was only really good at one thing and found everything else difficult, even if he really tried. When he wasn't playing, Leo felt awkward and fumbling.

Cris had the ball and kicked through the other makeshift goal, this pole's were unwashed shirts. He took off his shirt and whipped it around in mock celebration. Leo hugged Cris and kissed him, feeling like was the natural and right thing to do.

“I'm really bad at talking about stuff like this. Well, I'm bad at talking about anything. I really like you,” Leo said, his head resting on Cris's chest; they were still in the backyard, caught in the hug, “Do you like me?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn't I?” a moment of hesitation passed over Cris's face.

“Because I”m bad at talking and we've only known each other a week.”

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't like you. This is the first time I've been outside of Portugal, you know? I had to get a passport for you.”

And it felt right and good and not at all awkward to be there with Cris.

A few days after Cris left, Leo called Cesc, who was in London, playing for Arsenal, mostly to talk about his newest Pro Evo adventures; he had gotten Newell's Old Boys to the Copa Libertadores final, but lost to a Brazilian team. Cesc asked, “Anything new going on with you?”

“I think I met someone.”

“Cool, man. What's her name?”

Leo paused for a second before taking his own cosmically minor, yet personally major leap of faith, “His name is Cris.”

There was a small agonizing lull that felt like it stretched on forever, until Cesc said, “So is he cute or what?”

Leo laughed because he didn't know what else to do.


	3. Chapter 3

 Cristiano was working construction during the winter because the resort closed the pool during the winter, due to a lack of tourists. His boss promised to rehire him in the spring, so Cristiano wasn't too worried about missing anything, in particular. Even though it wasn't really all that cold, tourists didn't really come to Madeira in the Winter. It was just probably because of work and school.

During the weekend of his birthday, Cristiano decided to skip work and just go out with his friends. Rui, Vitór, and a few others shuttled him around to different bars and clubs. Cristiano didn't remember any of his birthday, and instead, the first conscious moment he had of that weekend was waking upon Sunday evening, on Rui's bedroom floor. At least, they hadn't left him some place, like an alley or something.

Every inch of his body ached and his skin was far too sensitive, his goose pimples were raised, stinging. His brain was being squeezed by his skull, like a vice. It was almost enough to want to stop drinking forever, but eventually, Cristiano felt fine enough to walk home and bought a beer to drink when he got back to his parents' house. He crawled in through his bedroom, straight into his bed. The unopened beer was left, abandoned outside, under his window.

He slept through most of Monday and went to get water from the kitchen. Before the weekend, Cristiano told his brother to tell their boss that he was sick, to cover his tracks. His mother was in the kitchen, flipping through an old magazine that she probably brought home from work.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked, not looking up. He probably didn't look well. He hadn't taken a shower in a while, so his hair was greasy and he still felt flushed, like he ran a marathon while suffering from the flu.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“I didn't see you for your birthday,” she reminded him, still not looking up.

“I was out,” Cristiano said, as he filled up a glass of water.

“You got a package from Spain. It must be from your little friend,” she said, gesturing towards a brown square package on the table, underneath the old newspapers.  His family all knew about 

Cristiano picked it up; he wasn't sure if he had even told Leo when his birthday was. If he had, he had to have told Leo not to buy him anything.

Cristiano went to the utensil drawer to grab a butter knife (“Not one of the good knives!” his mother reminded him). Cristiano cut the tape of the box and opened it warily. He wasn't sure what it was going to be, hoping it wasn't another plane ticket or anything really expensive. He almost wished it was a handweight encased in packing peanuts, so he wouldn't feel guilty accepting it, whatever it was.

Instead, the package opened to reveal another box; this one red leather with _Cartier_ written in gold stamped on the top. Cristiano's mouth went dry, “How expensive do you think this was?”

“Something silly,” his mother said; she was standing next to him, looking over Cristiano's shoulder, very curious about mysterious packages from rich, mysterious semi-boyfriends from other, exotic countries.

Cristiano didn't even want to look at it; instead, he put it under his bed and went back to sleep for the night. Except, he couldn't sleep. Most of his mental strength was spent trying not to scratch his own skin off in anticipation of what was actually in the box. His mind wanted to be in a state of unknowing and knowing at the same time: knowing what was in there was too much, yet not knowing was also throwing him into an itchy anxiety.

After roughly forty-five minutes of actual sleep, Cristiano had to wake up and meet his brother for work. They were digging, where the foundation for a new luxury spa was going to be built. It wasn't exciting, but it was a promised paycheck.

“How much do you think a Cartier watch is?” Cristiano asked, trying to seem aloof and sparked by a random thought, rather than intensely focused on an actual item that was actually under his bed that was already causing him great stress. They were eating lunch on the edge of the property, away from the dust and dirt piles. Hugo was leaning against a tree, near the sidewalk. Both of them were covered in dirt, so eating their sandwiches was a careful exercise.

“You see my millions from all the way over there?” Hugo said sarcastically, “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Ask your midget friend. He knows, I bet.”

“I can't.”

“Did he buy you that?”

“Maybe.”

“Jesus. He's loaded, isn't he?”

“He's a professional footballer. He's going to be loaded. That's how that works.”

“Nah. I've got a friend whose cousin plays for Marítimo. He still lives with his parents.”

“Leo plays for Barcelona. He doesn't play for Marítimo.”

“Why'd he buy you a watch?”

“Because it was my birthday last weekend.”

“Oh yeah. You didn't stop by, so I didn't you anything,” Hugo teased, “But _Leo_ took care of you, huh?”

“Shut up. What am I going to do with it?” Cristiano asked, inspecting his sandwich carefully, hoping he hadn't started blushing. He took a bite, “I can't keep it.”

“Why not?”

“What am I going to do with a watch that I'm pretty sure costs more than our parents' house? Wear it?”

“You could. You could sell it.”

“Are you allowed to sell expensive presents? It's probably got something really corny inscribed on it.”

“'C. Light of my life. L.,'” Hugo pinched Cristiano's cheek, though Cristiano slapped at Hugo's hand. Hugo asked, “Why are you even so worried about it? He liked you enough to lavish expensive presents on you.”

“What am I supposed to get him for his birthday, then? A farmers' almanac from 1996 and an IOU?”

“A coupon for a backrub. That works with my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend didn't buy you a watch that costs several thousand Euros.”

“She could have. You don't know her that well.”

Cristiano went home and had a staring contest with the red box, until he couldn't stand it any longer. He had taken it out of the outer cardboard box and discovered a folded-up piece of looseleaf, fluttering out, which began to taunt him as well.

Cristiano shoved it all under his bed again and left to go for a walk. Well, it was initially intended to be a quick walk. But then, his feet carried him to a familiar part of the city, though Cristiano did little to protest their decision, even though he should have. It was an uncomfortably familiar part of the city. Even despite his mind's unwillingness, his body decided to knock at Andre's window. Andre lived on the first floor of an apartment building, sharing his apartment with four mutual acquaintances. Well, they were Andre's actual friends and Cristiano's acquaintances.

Andre opened the window, asking, “What are you doing here?”

“I was wondering if we could talk.”

“When was the last time we talked?”

“Never really, I don't think.”

“You have to go through the door. I have my bed beneath the window now and I don't want you to step on it.”

Cristiano waited outside of the apartment door, until Andre let him in. Andre asked, “Why do you want to talk? You never talk.”

“I've become a philosopher after we broke up.”

“Ha. So do you want to fuck now or after we 'talk'?” Andre asked, leading Cristiano to his bedroom, even making airquotes.

“I really just want to talk.”

Andre flopped onto the his bed, “You're crazy. What's your problem today?”

“I got a present from this guy who's kind of my boyfriend.”

“So?” Andre asked, inspecting his fingernails.

“It's really fucking expensive.”

“Again, so?”

“I don't know what to do with it.”

“Keep it? I don't know what you want me to say. To be honest, I don't know why you're even here.”

“You're my only normal friend,” Cristiano replied. Andre worked at a pharmacy and made good money, or least decent enough money. Rui and Victór were closer friends, with no romantic history, but were decidedly not normal. Were he not gay, Andre probably could have grown up to be the normal father on a normal American sitcom. The kind that would be dubbed for Portuguese television during dinnertime. Andre was a little older than Cristiano and had gone to a different school. They met at a party and fooled around for about a year or so. It was good and everything, but it was just messing around.

“You mean, I'm the only friend you have who is not a functioning acoholic.”

“That's the same thing,” Cristiano said, sitting down next to Andre on the bed.

Andre touched Cristiano's cheek gently, “Who's your new sugar daddy? Who's buying expensive presents that you don't appreciate?”

“You don't know him. He lives in Spain.”

“I don't know what you want me to say. I don't know how to help you.”

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do. It's a really fucking expensive present. Like really fucking expensive.”

Andre shrugged, “So do you like him?”

“Yeah. But it feels really fast, which is really weird because we've only seen each other twice.”

“What? Should he have just ignored your birthday?”

“I don't know. I didn't even read his card; that's how fucking terrified I am of that stupid present.”

“Are you on different pages? Like is he more into you than you are into him?”

Cristiano shrugged, “I don't know. I guess. I don't see him very often.”

He wasn't exactly sure what it was about Leo, but it felt like something that was important. Cristiano hadn't felt any less of a person before, nor did he feel like he found his soul mate. He didn't feel any more or less complete when he met Leo. When they were together, Cristiano didn't feel great emotional heights or ecstasy or anything. Instead, it was just simply good. Really, really good. Leo was sweet and nice, if incredibly awkward. And being with Leo just felt good. Just really good.

But even despite that, Cristiano wasn't sure about a lot.  If they were to get more serious, they would still have to be secretive about everything.  Leo refused to tell his teammates about why Cristiano was actually in Spain, when he went to visit.  Was that what it was going to be like forever?  If they even lasted forever.  Was it even worth it to become stressed out over keeping secrets like that?  From everyone.  What if Leo actually became the newest Maradona and everyone cared about everything he did?  Would he have to hide?  Was Leo just going to become his socially awkward benefactor who only occasionally saw him, due to the need to keep everything secret, rather than just geographical inconvenience?

Andre teased, “Maybe you're just scared at how much you like him?”

“I'm not a fourteen year old girl with a crush. I've had serious relationships before.”

Andre sat up, scratching his head, “Name one.”

“What?”

“Name a serious relationship you've had.”

“You.”

“Me? Are you serious? We do not count as a serious relationship. You were drunk for most of whatever we were doing,” Andre sounded genuinely surprised.

“Why not? I'm drunk for most things.”

“Because people in serious relationships don't sleep around with other people, which is a thing that I know was mutual. We had fun. We weren't serious,” Andre said, firmly, rolling his eyes “Do you have any better examples?”

So it turned out that Leo was his first serious boyfriend.  And all of his worries became more tangible, more concrete.

Cristiano walked back to his parents' house. No one else was home. His mother was probably still at work and his father was probably out with his friends. Cristiano turned on the television, but couldn't focus on the show. He went into his bedroom to grab the box and the looseleaf sheet.

He liked his life. That he never used to have to worry about anything. Before, he didn't stress out over benign presents. He never had to worry about trying, before. But with Leo, he wanted to try. And that, inevitably brought about a new, though not totally unfamiliar fear. A fear of disappointment. Cristiano had tried to keep expectations low with other people, but then he met Leo and he wanted to try. 

Cristiano opened the looseleaf letter and looked at the tight, messy handwriting, barely registering the letters and words as having an actual meaning. He had to concentrate; his mind was wandering.

> Happy birthday! I hope that you had a good birthday and you don't get too hungover. I know the present is probably weird or whatever, but I really like you and I think you're worth it. I know it's stupid since we've only known each for only a little while, but I don't know if I've ever been as comfortable with anyone as I am with you and that means a lot to me.

He didn't open the box, putting it back under his bed. Cristiano opened a beer bottle and leaned back in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt good, but nervous.


	4. Chapter 4

 In April, Leo tore a muscle in his thigh. His seasons often ended early, it seemed. Well, he only had two earlier seasons, but they both ended in early Spring, before everyone else’s did. He went to see Cesc and Gerard in England. While he was in the airport before he got on the plane, Leo had to sign about twenty autographs. Once he got in England, no one seemed to recognize him, which was fine for him.

When they were at Cesc’s apartment, Gerard started fooling around with Leo’s crutches, speeding past the furniture, half-squatting. Gerard asked, “So, Leo, is your boyfriend hotter than me?”

“What?” Leo almost choked on his own spit. Sure, Gerard was good looking, but Leo never thought about Gerard that way. That was wronger than wrong: it was possibly emotional incest.

“Is he hotter than me? I’m assuming I’m about an eight. A seven at the very least. Is he an eight or above?”

“An eight is generous for your big mouth. Anyway, you think Leo Messi, ‘breakout player of La Liga’ would be messing around with a seven or below?” Cesc asked, hitting Gerard on the back of his head, “He’s a ten, isn’t he, Leo? He has to be.”

“I think he is.”

“Young love,” Gerard sniffed. Gerard settled down in an overstuffed, cream-colored chair, fiddling with Cesc’s iPod speakers, turning the music so loud all of the furniture started vibrating. Cesc pulled the speakers away from Gerard and turned the volume down.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Cesc affirmed to no one in particular.

“So he went up to you, right? I know you’ve got no game, Messi,” Gerard asked. He was only in London for a the day, since he played up north, in Manchester. Leo’s handle on geography was shaky, so he had no clue how long the commute was; for all he knew, Gerard had a ten hour drive back.

“I was drunk, so I went up to him first.”

“And? Then, what?”

“We had sex.”

“Mierda. Our little Leo is growing up,” Gerard reached out and pinched Leo’s cheek, while Leo tried to push his hand away.

“So he was your first, right?” Cesc asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Leo said, flicking at Gerard’s hand, “But, yeah.”

“That’s how Carla did it her first time, right? With a lifeguard?” Gerard asked, “I don’t think he was Portuguese though."

Cesc looked extremely horrified, “I didn’t need to know that. I didn’t want to know. I shouldn’t know that. Why do you know that?”

Gerard shrugged, like it was normal to know that stuff about friends’ sisters. Leo hadn’t known that, but he hadn’t actually asked. Gerard was the kind of person to ask, even if he wasn't particularly interested; he just always asked about that kind of thing. Leo probably would have preferred dying over having a chat with Cesc's sister about how she lost her virgnity, but Gerard was unafraid about those kinds of things.

“When are you guys coming back to Barcelona?”

Gerard shrugged, but Cesc looked a little more guilty. Gerard was still on the reserves for Manchester United, but Cesc was one of the starters for Arsenal, already. Leo didn’t push it, not wanting to be disappointed with the answer, more than he already was.

Before Leo went back to the airport, to go to Spain for a check-up, Cesc made him breakfast, just scrambled eggs and toast. Cesc said, “So you really like this guy, right?”

Leo nodded.

“He’s not just using you ‘cause you’re a famous footballer or anything, right? Not that you’d know right now or anything.”

“No.”

“When I go back home for the summer, you better bring him to Barcelona. I need to judge him thoroughly, okay?”

Leo checked his phone after he got past security, in the airport. When he shoved his phone back into his pocket, he saw a little boy in front of him, probably only about eight or nine, holding his mother's hand. The boy was wearing a blue and red “Messi 19” shirt that taunted him all the way to his gate. While he was waiting at the gate, a different little boy approached him, holding out a napkin and a pen for him to sign.

It was the first time outside of Argentina and Barcelona that he had been seriously noticed. He had signed a lot of autographs when he was in Spain, but had largely left being noticed to Deco, Ronaldinho or the other stars of the team. Instead, Leo had been more in the background, due to his age and lack of experience. Even though there was no guarantee he'd be the next Maradona, but there was always that possibility. And Leo wasn't sure what that would mean. What that would mean for his future. There weren't any other gay players that he knew about. And it didn't seem like the general public would have been fond of that kind of player.

The doctors in Spain told him that he was healing fine and took the crutches back.  They even confirmed that he could play in the Copa Ámerica in July.  He was going to Portugal to visit Cris, he was going to represent Argentina in a tournament; things were looking up.

When Leo got to Portugal, no one really seemed to notice him. Except for Cris, who met him outside of the airport, on the sidewalk, outside of the terminal. Leo hugged Cris tightly, trying to make up for all of the times that they didn't and couldn’t.

“My brother said that he could pick us up, if you wanted to wait for him.”

“Let's get a cab.”

“Good. Hugo's a real pain in the ass,” Cris said. He yawned deeply, stretching his arms above his head, “I can’t stay for too long. I helped my cousin move out of his apartment today and I’m wiped.”

“You should stay at my room tonight.”

“I can go home. It’s no big deal.”

“Come on,” Leo said, pulling at his own sleeve, “You should.”

“You’re lucky that I think you’re cute.”

“My grandmother tells me that all the time.”

Cris fell asleep halfway through the first episode of the soap opera that he was translating for Leo. His mouth sagged open. Even though it was probably really creepy, Leo observed Cris while he slept. His pink tongue hung over his teeth; he snored a little bit.

The next morning, Leo woke up earlier than Cris did. Again, he observed Cris's little details. The freckle near his nose that got lost in his smile lines. His Adam's Apple prominent in the clean lines of his body. A raised white scar in the middle of his chest. Leo hadn't noticed that before.

“What are you doing, weirdo?” Cris asked, stretching lazily, like a cat; his eyes were barely opened.

Leo shrugged. He ran his finger along the scar on Cris's chest, “What happened?”

“Had heart surgery, like, five years ago. Had to quit playing football,” Cris said.

“Were you good?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“How good?”

“Better than you, dummy,” Cris sat up, stretching his arms above his head.

“You would've played for Barcelona.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

As Cristiano pulled on his pants, he appeared to find something in the back pocket, laying it on the bed. He picked it up and handed it to Leo. It was an envelope that had “Leo” scrawled across the face.

“This is for your birthday. I know it's next month and everything, but I meant to give it to you yesterday.”

Leo tore open the top and pulled the card out. A folded piece of green paper slipped out of the card, which he didn't even open. Leo unfolded it, reading aloud, “Good for one hour long back rub.”

“And considering my hourly wage, that's worth fifteen euros. Just so you know. So you don't think I'm cheap or anything.”

Next to his first FIFA game and the time he got a bicycle from the president of Barcelona, it was pretty much the best birthday present Leo ever got.

“You should come to Venezuela next month, you know. For the Copa Ámerica.”

“I have work,” Cris said.

“You don't have to, though.”

“'I don't have to?' What are you talking about? I'm working all of August to make up the hours I'm missing out on this week.”

“I don't mean that. I mean, I could pay for your stuff.”

“And what? I just sit at home and masturbate all the time? I don't have enough personal interests for that to end well.”

Leo didn't mean that. Or maybe he did. His mouth was working far faster than his brain was comprehending what he was even saying.

“You could come live in Barcelona. With me.”

The words hung in the air, almost like a bubble. Leo wished he could reach out and pop the words, so Cris didn't hear them. Instead, Cris didn't say anything and looked a little shocked. Leo was hoping that if he wished hard enough that he could go back in time and punch his three-second younger self for being so psychotic, as to suggest that.

They didn't say anything for a while; Leo was mostly contemplating stabbing himself, using a letter opener that was on the desk with the resort's logo printed on its handle. After what felt like the longest thirty seconds of his life, Cris finally said, “I don't think I want that.”

Leo let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He felt a little faint, probably from holding his breath to an absurd degree.

“Not now, at least. Not yet.”

“Okay,” Leo tried to make it sound like he was casual about it, though his face was probably purple from a lack of oxygen, “I get that.”

And he did. He really did. He knew it was a big deal for people to move to different countries on the whims of others. Leo got that. His mother and sister had to move back to Argentina and were inextricably tied to him, through shared genetics. What was the likelihood that a guy he had seen three times in week-long spurts over the course of nearly a year would adjust completely to Barcelona to the point where it didn't matter that Leo was out of the city for a good portion of the time? His family couldn't even do that; what if Cris couldn't. Why _would_ Cris say yes to such an insane proposition?

Not mention all the hiding. He wasn't even sure if Cris would be allowed to live in Leo's house with him; he hadn't discussed it with anyone, let alone the club or anyone in charge of those types of decisions. He had kept it all a secret from his teammates and his coaches, like it was some terrible and unimaginable trait Leo had. Gerard and Cesc had reacted positively, clearly, but they had to; it was their job to. No one else was beholden to that.

“One day, maybe,” Cris affirmed for Leo, grabbing his hand.

“One day,” Leo repeated absently.

“Depends on how much money you make. I don't want to live with someone without a mansion. Maybe two mansions,” Cris pulled Leo closer, “We should go to the beach or something.”

For one little crazy moment in Leo's brain, he was almost disappointed that Cris had said no. It would have been nice to be close to someone who didn't seem to mind that Leo had poor social skills and someone that Leo really liked. Someone who wasn't one of his brothers. It was just so good to see Cris, to feel him, to just be with him. Even if Cris was sleeping, it was nice to hear the rhythm of his breathing and to feel his heat.

Cris let go and sat down on the bed, picking up his sneakers. Leo didn't know what to do, still half-stunned from his personal psychosis and half-disappointed.

Cris looked up at him and frowned, apparently noticing Leo's poor attempts at hiding his emotions. Cris reached out and grabbed Leo's hand, squeezing it tightly, “You want everything to happen really quick. You got to be patient. These things take a while.”

“Are you sure?”

“You can't jam all of the good things into a short period of time. Then, you'll have nothing to look forward to. Trust me.”

And Leo trusted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading. I hoped you enjoyed reading this as much I enjoyed writing it!


End file.
